


To Be Real

by malcontent (Whispering_Sumire)



Series: AMNESTY, BC FUQ IT❀ [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha Scott, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesty, BAMF Stiles, Blanket Permission, Canon-Typical Violence, Couch Cuddles, Everyone Has Issues, Good Peter Hale, Handwaving, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nightmares, Nogitsune Trauma, Pack Dynamics, Panic Attacks, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Scott, Redemption, Scott is a Good Friend, Stiles Stilinski Has Panic Attacks, also everyone has permission to remix or translate or continue, bc i'm done with it, meaning this has been in my computer for a long ass time and is probably shit, scott is also possibly a bit ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 01:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16506869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/malcontent
Summary: "No offense, but naming was not game your family had."Considering it's the first thing Stiles has said within the past two hours, Peter can only be grateful, though he snipes back, "I'll have you know, my Aunt Shy named all three of her children after natural disasters."Stiles gives him a look like that doesn't help his caseat all, and Peter snorts, decides to go fairy tale light with the yarn of his Uncle finding an orphaned, abused, terrified Omega in the rainforests of argentina, coaxing her back to health only to have her stalk him all the way home and demand he 'keep' her. In the end, he did, and she named herself Shy, became a history professor engrossed with all things macabre. He had been very close to her, before the fire.She taught him everything he knows, probably even ingrained a few personality quirks in him that, he hopes, have not been ironed out by his stint courting with madness."So, you weren'talwaysan egotistical, machiavellian narcissist with a god-complex?" Stiles asks, looking up at him through his lashes, whiskey-burn bright and sun-soaked, all the rain within them evaporated, and Peter is helpless but to smile back.





	To Be Real

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger/Content Warning :: The sheriff is an alcoholic, references to child abuse (? sorta), Scott's mildly ooc, emetophobes beware a thing happens, Stiles has nightmares and panic attacks, everyone's got issues
> 
> Also: Amnesty; this is likely a forever WIP, if you wanna run away with it, feel free (please tag me, thoooo, I wanna gush at youuuu). If you read it anyway, _throws flowerpetals on your keyboard in praise_ ❀❀❀

He doesn't know why the loft becomes his safe-haven after Allison's death, especially considering Derek isn't even _there_ , he went back to south america with his sister; not that Stiles blames him. Beacon Hills has only ever given the Hales a spectacularly shitty deal, which is kind of why he'd expected Peter to go with him, but he'd stayed behind instead.

There's something different about the man, just the slightest bit more stable, sane. He seems intent on, after telling Malia that she is his biological daughter, sticking with her, supporting her however he is able, despite all of her feral making that an almost unreasonably hard task. Still, he bought her an apartment, a car that was fast enough to suit her tastes, books, even offered Lydia an arrangement (not one Stiles knows anything about) as payment for her tutelage. He's not exactly a part of the Pack; he doesn't come to Pack meetings or fight with them or for them, he seems to be there mostly for his own amusement and the ability to be as close as his daughter will allow.

It occurs to Stiles that he may have gotten one or two very important things about the wolf wrong, but he excuses his evaluation based on Peter's general lack of sanity and Stiles' general lack of context throughout the beginning of their... acquaintance—if you can call running from someone while they try to eat you and your friends faces off an acquaintance.

The loft is Derek's, the whole complex bought out by him and in his name, but for reasons Peter's never explained- though Stiles could probably guess if he tried- Peter stays here, in one of the larger rooms upstairs.

So, it makes no sense that it's where _Stiles_ feels most comfortable, safe, but it is, despite the company. He shouldn't have any emotional attachments to this place; he'd never been more than the 2d version of what you might call friends with Derek, for all they were allies, the man went against Scott more often than not, and with Scott went Stiles, mostly. Every Pack meeting they'd ever held, after the whole Pack thing seemed to settle, had been held here, but that party where the Oni first started _really_ showing up had been held here, too, and Boyd had _died_ here—that doesn't seem to matter to his sleep-deprived, grief-addled brain, though. This is where he feels safe.

Maybe it's the windows. Maybe it's the indifferent werewolf who sometimes narrows his eyes at Stiles' presence like he doesn't understand what the fuck he's doing here, either. Who fucking knows.

Although, he does understand that some of it is just him running away, just a tad, from the medical bills and the disappointment etched into every sobering line on his father's face, because it's hard not to feel a certain type of way about deleting footage and destroying evidence that could indict your son- even knowing he was under the influence of possession- when you're the goddamn sheriff. And then there's Scott moving onto Kira far too quickly for Stiles to stomach, _everyone_ moving the fuck away, and most of whoever's left being people he hasn't gotten to know enough yet to be any type of comfortable with. It's never been easy, after all, for him to make friends- why do you think he's only ever had, and always clung so possessively, to Scott?- and, after everything, it's only gotten more difficult.

He startles a little out of his own thoughts when his phone rings, he doesn't check the ID when he answers, "You have reached the Junior Stilinski, here for every ridiculously stupid adventure you could ever possibly imagine, delighted to be at your service."

"Uh," comes the vaguely familiar voice at the other end of the line, "Sti-les?"

"Oh! You're the Greenwich Alpha, um, Bedrisek, right?" He asks quickly, sitting up from where he was sprawled out on the couch and swiveling around to open his laptop, the thing placed on the shitty coffee table Stiles got second-hand from craigslist, because Derek never actually furnished this place, and some things were essential enough to drop twenty bucks on.

The man on the end huffs, "You can just call me Gray." His accent sounds like a cross between irish brogue and something a little more eastern european that Stiles can't quite identify.

"Sure," Stiles agrees kindly, he understands the need for nicknames when you have a unique name most people can't, or won't, pronounce correctly. "So how's my favorite Banshee and her douche-canoe of a boyfriend?"

Gray snorts, "Very good; Lydia's reorganized everything to 'run more efficiently', I personally thought it was running just fine _before,_ but she's a woman to be reckoned with."

"That she is."

"And Jackson's started complaining a lot less since she's came, it's a breath of fresh air to say the least; him with her is marginally easier to deal with than him without. If being bossed around a bit by a wailing woman is the only price I have to pay, I'll pay it gladly."

Stiles smiles slightly. He skypes with Lydia almost daily, and he's been emailing Jackson since he left, to make sure he got on with the london supernatural community as well as possible and got into a Pack without too much fuss, but it's still good to hear how they're doing from someone else. Of all their flaws, pride, he's sure, is the greatest.

"So, Lyds told me that you were dealing with a rogue coven of vampires?"

"Yeah," Gray says, and he sounds a little speculative, a little guarded. "She shouldn't be burdening you with our Pack business; I know that you did a lot to get your friends settled in here, but, you're the _McCall Pack's_ Emissary, I really don't think—"

"I'm not an Emissary," Stiles tells him, to which he replies with an almost growled out:

"All the more reason."

And he sounds actually concerned, which is both a little patronizing, and understandable—beyond three extensive emails and stories he's heard from Lydia and Jackson, Gray knows shit all about him; Stiles could be connected to hunters, he could be crazy (which, actually...), he could be _dangerous_ to the Procházka Pack, in any number of ways.

"Look," he sighs, pulling up the pages he'd had bookmarked and the programs he'd been running. "I get it, why you didn't want her to tell me, I do, but you don't understand what it'll do to her, if she's made to scream for one of you. The last time she had to scream for someone, it almost _broke_ her, and I promised her I'd do everything in my power to make sure she didn't have to go through that again, so, I understand your concerns, but I'm going to ignore them for now, okay? Besides, I found them."

"You——wait, what?"

"Your rogue coven? I found them, where they're staying, their names, hell, I even have records on all of them dating back to the early 1800s. The Alpha has gone by Mandy Evanson since 2012, and they're not ordinary vampires; as far as I can tell they're some sort of sub-species derived from Croatian Sirens. The stakes will have to be dipped in gold and blessed by some kind of priest, I don't think it matters _what_ kind, as long as it's mildly holier than most gold-tipped stakes—also, noise-canceling headphones would... probably be wise."

"I——oh."

"Yep, and-" Stiles clicks over to his emails, drags a few files, hits send- "check your email, it's all there. Keep yourselves safe, alright?"

"Sure," Gray says a little faintly, and Stiles hangs up on him. Well. That's his good deed for the day done, he thinks, closing his computer and swiveling around to lay down again with a bit of a weary sigh. The red velvet couch is a little lumpy, but it's soft, and he's exhausted all the time these days, so sleep, unfortunately, comes easy.

* * *

Peter has been mildly intrigued and confused by Stiles' recent behavior in equal measure. He understands that he himself has changed, raising oneself from the dead, finding out you have a daughter, and dealing with the cruelties demons impose will do that to a person.

He felt above it, he's certainly always had too big an ego, too much goddamned pride and a jaded sense of self-righteousness, always thinking that being a lone-wolf or being Alpha, at least, would be what made him _whole_. But that lust for power led him to slaughter his favorite niece, insanity caused him to go on a murder spree, and it may come as a surprise- in fact, it probably surprised him most- but he honestly wants to be a good father, or something akin to the like. So he's settled into the fact that he's a _Beta_ \- nothing more- Pack-adjacent to a group of mal-practiced adolescents; just this side of being an Omega, but close enough to them not to go over that edge again. Feral doesn't suit him, and he's fairly certain- based on threats posed by both Stiles and Lydia- that he wouldn't come back from it a second time.

He allows a certain measure of closeness he wouldn't have before, and tempers his tongue away from poison-silk, contenting himself with snark and the kind of dry wit that goes over most people's heads.

He also tries, in a way that is far too desperate for his liking, to avoid certain temptations. Like, for instance, his pseudo-Alpha's- and doesn't that just leave a sour taste in his mouth? Oh, how low he's fallen- very best, very _human_ , very _teenaged_ friend.

There has always been something about Stiles, sharp-bright clever, whiskey-burn eyes, always on the edge of a very high precipice, too frenetic for his own good, desperately loud, like the quiet would crush him if he ever let it in, or, perhaps, like it would seduce him to melt away in it, to dissolve like smoke in that corrupting shadow. Peter has never been able to tell if he is uniquely fragile, or startlingly, fiercely brave, though he's beginning to suspect the boy may be both.

Either way, he's special.

And he is never boring, which is possibly the most alluring thing about him, since, for Peter, it has always been so very easy to get bored.

Still, Peter has the very distinct feeling that Scott would take offense to his intellectual attraction, nevermind his _physical_ attraction.

(Malia, quite clever in her own right, and far too blunt, had noticed almost straight away and had told him: "He's a good kisser."

Peter had blinked at her. "You kissed him?"

"He was possessed, I was cold," she'd shrugged like that's the only explanation the act really required. "He didn't want to go farther, but he did cuddle me for awhile, which was weird, but warm."

"I—" he'd hesitated; then, "Why are you telling me this?"

"You smell funny whenever he's around, like you want him to go into heat for you or something. I thought you'd want to know," she'd shrugged again, and then stalked off, apparently satisfied with their talk.

Peter had come to the conclusion that werecoyotes have a very different, much simpler, perspective on life and sexuality than most, and accepted the conversation for what it was; because Malia was particularly fond of Stiles, would probably go so far as to protect him with her life, if it came to it- which was not something that could be said for any of the rest of the Pack, who she'd most probably leave in the lurch without so much as a passing thought- and that was as close to _acceptance_ as he was going to get from her—that she'd willingly trust him with someone she felt loyal to.)

It doesn't bother him much, the age difference, beyond the initial compulsion to wait until the boy is eighteen; his morals may be few and far between, but they _do_ exist.

The thing of it is, how frighteningly _easy_ it would be. You'd think not, considering the type of person Stiles is. For all that he and Scott are like brothers, they are nothing alike. Stiles doesn't have the capacity to care for more than a scant handful of people, and for those he _does_ care for, he would offer his blood and tears, he'd offer his very soul, his sanity and everything else on a battered silver platter, and he would _never_ expect anything in return. Truly, he doesn't often _get_ much in return. And Peter has no idea how, but, though he isn't exactly on that list of people yet, it wouldn't take much more to get there.

Somehow, the past few months after the nogitsune, the both of them hanging out in the loft, just _existing_ around each other, has been enough to allow Stiles to feel more than warily comfortable around him. Perhaps it was how Peter was taking to Malia, considering the loyalty _she_ feels toward the boy is magnified ten-fold in return—whatever their experience in Eichen, it sure as hell allowed for a significant amount of traumatized bonding. Perhaps it was how he hadn't done any machiavellian planning _against_ the McCall Pack, and, in fact, had stayed up the rare night with Stiles helping plan and research how to take down whatever ridiculous thing was threatening their town _this_ time. Perhaps it was because, despite how entirely unnerving it was, when Stiles went eerily quiet, and his eyes glossed over, Peter didn't leave him alone, would sit on the chair adjacent to the couch the boy had pretty much taken for his own, and read out loud, softly—soothingly, he hoped; not to mention how much of a struggle it was to sometimes get the boy to eat.

Perhaps, after all, it was because Stiles realized that Peter _understood_. What it was like to have no control of yourself, your mental faculties, to have seen unforgivable monsters within _yourself_ , to have seen the faceless terrors chaos and death bring, to have stared into the abyss and only just barely managed to bring yourself back from the brink, even though, now, some part of you would _always_ be there. Little pieces lost, enough to make them unfinished puzzles, the type of thing a sensible person would throw away, and a sentimental person might keep, undusted, in some dark, forgotten, cobwebbed corner.

Neither of them were lost, anymore; Peter was as sane as he could be, and Stiles was no longer possessed, but it was so easy to forget, so easy to fall back into the spaces the madness and the demons left and find yourself half terrified of the gaping holes and half yearning to refill them with the things you lost, however corrupted they now are, because they were _yours_ , they were _you_ once. But not anymore.

Broken and damaged misfits, the both of them.

And that isn't even enough, not really, to cover it, it's a little _silly_ in comparison to what they are, but no words could be crumpled and bloodied and fucking rusted enough to truly fit.

If he's being honest with himself, which he isn't often, the most frightening thing about the possibility of being with Stiles is the _emotions_ that may come with whatever it is they could have between them. Peter thinks he could be _vulnerable_ for him, and there's something viscerally terrifying about that.

So, all in all, better to avoid it entirely—which does become a little hard when the boy has essentially moved into the loft. Peter honestly wonders where his father is in all this, he'd thought they were close; the one time he'd seen fit to ask, Stiles had mumbled something about _conflating_ and gone quiet enough that Peter had almost screamed, just to have noise again, and he'd _stayed_ quiet for nearly a _week_ after.

Peter sighs, tries to refocus on the book he's reading, but his mind keeps wondering, and he's pretty sure he's read the same paragraph over a daunting, mind-numbing number of times when he hears Stiles' heartbeat and breathing quicken nearly three seconds before the boy is _screaming_ , like the sound is being painstakingly cut out of him with a very dull, rusted blade. It's one of the most horrifying, heart-wrenching sounds he's ever heard, and he's already out of his room and halfway down the spiral staircase before he can even think about it.

"Stiles!" He calls, rushing over, shaking him awake, somehow gentle despite what feels like magma rushing through his veins, which isn't helped by the boy's face, contorted as if in pain, his full-body flinch away, like the sensation of touch will shatter him like so much glass. _"Stiles."_

A choked gasp, his adam's apple bobbing and the tendons in his throat popping like he's been _drowning_ and this is his first free breath, and then he's scrambling up, indifferent to what he uses to right himself, the couch first, and then Peter- muttering _nonono_ \- before he's wrenching his hands free to place them carefully in his lap. They're shaking, he's sweating, his scent, normally candied apples and wheat fields, is saturated with brine and the overwhelming stench of fear.

"I can't—I—" he's not making much sense, words fighting for attention over spasming lungs, all of that hitched breath terror tangling into nonsense on his tongue as his heartbeat gets worryingly fast.

"Stiles, you've got to breathe," he murmurs, reaching for hands, going stone-still when the boy flinches back. Increasingly distressed, Stiles looks up at him, face crumpling into defeat and heartbreaking sobs.

"I—I don't know," he says, and his voice is rough, made tiny, sickly, and not like him at all; it _kills_ Peter to hear him like this. "I don't know if it's real. I—I h-have to coun—c-c-, ghh..."

"Okay," Peter whispers, and he's surprised at the crack in his own voice. He's never been an _emotional_ man, or, at least, he'd never felt anything like this around anyone who wasn't Pack. But, he supposes, Stiles registered as _Pack_ to his wolf nearly the moment they met.

He wonders what it says about him that, insane and feral and fueled by a six-years past fire, he latched onto a boy standing above a bloodied girl who had ignored and bullied while he pined, demanding they call an _ambulance_ before he'd allow Peter to proceed with this scheduled kidnapping.

There had _always_ been something about Stiles.

Swallowing, Peter watches the boy struggle to stutter through numbers, trying to blink through tears to get past the blur of them in order to see that he truly had _only_ ten, _exactly_ ten. "Sweetheart," Peter breathes, and wraps his hands around Stiles' wrists, instead. "Together; we'll count them together. Here, one. Two. Three..."

It takes a long while, to calm him down; at some point, Peter migrates up onto the couch beside Stiles, an arm around his shoulders, and, as he incrementally relaxes, Stiles melts into him, his breathing becoming deep, calm, his heartbeat returning to resting rate, which is still fast compared to most, but nevertheless.

He's still shivering, though- little tremors rolling throughout his body, caramel-melt apple-tart dry-earth being invaded by something sea-wash complicated- and there are tears clinging to his eyelashes, the whiskey in his eyes diluted with too much water. Peter doesn't want to leave him long enough to get a book, to read to him softly like he normally does when Stiles gets quiet, too in his own head, so he starts telling stories instead, little things he can remember of the people he lost.

He speaks of his father, saturated in the much richer, silk-sweet smoke-scent of his tobacco pipe, how he was disgusted with the idea of _cigarrettes_ , said that filtered shit could never compare to the natural stuff, and his mother would always say it was bad for you either way and she couldn't understand his infatuation with the stuff. His father had been their Alpha before Talia, and their Great Aunt Teagan before him; wolves weren't matriarchal like hunters, or patriarchal like many societal structures- within Packs like theirs, within Packs like _any_ , the Alpha-spark chose.

To become an Alpha, you were either chosen by the Gods and the Moon, capable of becoming one without killing or inheriting or anything else, incorruptible, _true_ —that is what Scott was. You could kill an Alpha to earn their Spark, but killing for it tainted it somewhat, made it something a little less, inherently. Or, you could _inherit_ it, through _ceremony_ , or through the death of whoever you were meant to inherit it _from._

Wolves had _instinct_ about this. Peter had known the moment he was eleven years old that he would be the Left-Hand, and everyone had known the moment Talia was _born_ she was meant to be Alpha; it was like that for Laura, too, although they hadn't known for sure until she was three, and _Cora_ would've been the Left-Hand of that generation—Derek was never meant for such responsibility, he was a _Beta;_ all of this was perfectly fine, had been, anyway, until death and destruction blurred the lines.

The inherited Spark was tainted first by tragedy, then again, twice-over, by slaughter—he admits, then, that _maybe_ , if they'd looked harder, there might've been a way to save Cora without making Derek give it up, but...

"The Left-Hand," he explains, "is the member of the Pack who gathers and organizes information, who deals most in politics and getting their hands dirty; a spy, an assassin, a strategist, and, like the Right-Hand, like the Alpha, their ultimate duty is to keep the Pack _safe_. Trying to find a better solution could've led to irrevocable damage, and Derek wasn't safe, anyway, with the spark so corrupted—he might've been, were it not for the fact that he was not only never _meant_ to be an Alpha, but he's already been through thousands of traumas, he wasn't capacitated to be an Alpha, let alone cleanse the spark, so I—. It wasn't some mad-grab for power, or manipulative scheme. It was the best solution to the problem."

He regales some tales of he and Talia, his big sister, his Alpha, about his little sister, named after Great Aunt Teagan—to which Stiles interjects with: "No offense, but naming was not game your family had."

Considering it's the first thing he's solidly said within the span of nearly two hours, Peter can only find it within himself to be grateful, though he can't help but snipe back, "I'll have you know, my Aunt Shy named all three of her children after natural disasters."

Stiles gives him a look like that doesn't help his case _at all_ , and Peter snorts, decides to go fairy tale light with his overly embellished knowledge of his Uncle Luke, finding an orphaned, abused, terrified Omega in the rainforests of argentina, and coaxing her back to health, only to have her stealth-stalk him all the way back home and demand he 'keep' her. In the end, he did, and she named _herself_ Shy, became a history professor _engrossed_ with anything ancient and macabre. She was his father's Left-Hand, and he had been very close to her, before the fire.

She taught him everything he knows, probably even ingrained a few personality quirks in him that, he hopes, have not been ironed out by his stint courting with madness.

"So, you weren't _always_ an egotistical, machiavellian narcissist with a god-complex?" Stiles asks, turning his head to smile into the side of Peter's chest, looking up at him through his lashes, whiskey-burn bright and sun-soaked, all the rain within them evaporated, and Peter is helpless but to smile back.

 _"No,"_ he tells him, rolling his eyes dramatically, "and I hardly think nearly half of those things apply to me anymore."

Stiles hums quietly, "Not so much, no," he agrees. Then, even quieter, "Fatherhood suits you."

"So does sanity," Peter replies, the slightest bit wry, and Stiles hums again, just this side of pleased, in agreement. They settle in the quiet for awhile, before Stiles pokes him.

"Hmm?"

"Tell me more?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

That appellation has slipped out of him unbidden twice now, but Stiles just smiles and snuggles closer, so he figures the boy either hasn't noticed, or doesn't care enough right now to draw attention to it.

* * *

Scott's cleaning up from the Pack meeting, Kira, Mason, and Liam having gone home, Malia and Stiles gone to Deaton's for more information on Sparks and their actual _abilities_ , since Stiles is still clueless about it and he hates being clueless about _anything;_ which kind of leaves him alone with Peter.

Don't get him wrong, he's all for second chances, and, from the conversations he's had with Stiles and what he can observe with his own two eyes, it seems like Peter might genuinely deserve one. It's been hard, though, to get himself past the _hurt_ Peter brought to them, especially during that first year as a wolf, and, though he understands Peter was _insane_ , and that most of his sanity did come back with his resurrected life, it's still hard to reconcile some of the things he's done. The _terrible_ things he's done.

And it's not even about him, anymore- he doesn't have a leg to stand on when it comes to non-consensual Biting, he thinks, wincing internally when he remembers what he did to Derek; Stiles hadn't talked to him for nearly a week after he found out, frog-marched him to that abandoned train station like a disobedient dog to apologize profusely- or, really, the people who'd died in Peter's gamble for vengeance. He thinks he understands that a little better, now, being an Alpha puts a lot of things in perspective, including the Pack-bonds- which he can _feel_ , now, pulsing, ephemeral threads- and the instinct to keep Pack safe, the horror of one of them being hurt...

Being _lost_.

He swallows hard and tries his damnedest not to think of Allison as he grabs the broom and the dustpan, intent on keeping the wooden floors as spotless as possible.

Stiles had lunch with him last week, just him—they'd both ditched school, for once, to be ordinary teenagers. It'd seemed like what Stiles needed, and it was nice to scent a timid kind of happiness, after so many months of putrid anxious depression. He remembers listening to his best friend talk a little bit about it, what it's like to be so out of control, that he still has trouble, sometimes, remembering it's over.

"I still have to count them," he'd said, "even if it's not a nightmare, even if I don't dream at all—I still have to count them as soon as I wake up. And _reading_ , it's not just a pastime, anymore, dude, it's." He'd made a vague gesture with his curly-fry, making a face at it when it'd flopped around more than proved his point; "I _need_ to do it, so I know the words make sense, so I know I'm still here, that it's still me.

"Fucking doors, too——it's weird, right? Of all the things. But a door being left ajar will give me a panic-attack in two seconds flat—which doesn't even make _sense,_ because I'm totally fine with Go: saying it, playing it, I'm cool as a cucumber. I could probably even beat Kira's mom, not that I'm going to, but I've got _skills_ , man.

"It sucks, though, because then I remember that I still _know_ things. He researched all of you, you know—I can now say with absolute certainty what Peter's favorite brand of wine is, what _laundry detergent_ everyone uses, I can rattle off Mrs. Martin's schedule because I have it _memorized_ , because _he_ memorized it, and it's all in there, and so are things—things I don't want to talk about, but I have them now, they're all mine, even though I don't want them, even though I fucking _hate_ them.

"I think it's like that for Peter, too. I mean, it's different, obviously, because even though he was insane, fundamentally, it was still his choice, right? But. He looks at me sometimes, and I can tell he _gets_ it.

"Like, I love you, bro, but even after everything I've just said... You don't. Not really. Do you?"

Scott had smiled softly, a little sheepishly, and they'd moved onto other topics, but that point still stuck with him—Stiles and Peter understood each other fundamentally in a way no one else could (though he supposes Jackson might be able to, if he were here).

Because they'd both done things under the influence of something they had little to no control over, and they both felt guilt for it.

But, Scott just can't... he certainly feels more comfortable around Peter, and the man's decent enough, but calling him Pack? Trusting him? He just can't seem to do it, not yet, anyway. And that, to an extent, might be because while he _thinks_ Peter might be regretful for some of the things he's done, he doesn't _know_.

It's hard to see genuity, here, hard to take what seems like progress toward some kind of redemption at face-value.

"Scott," he hears Peter call, and looks up from where he was scrubbing the counter so hard it had nearly cracked.

"Oh, uh," he lets up a little, turning to the other 'were, wringing the washcloth in his hands. "What's up, Peter?"

"Are you alright?"

No. "I'm fine—did you need something?"

"I wanted to speak with you about something, yes," Peter agrees, folding his arms over his chest and leaning on the archway that leads from the kitchen to the living area.

"Oh-kaaayyyy?"

Peter half smirks before becoming somber again, "Has Stiles talked to you about the nightmares he's been having?"

Scott sighs, already nodding and setting the washcloth in the sink, debating over it a second before deciding to wash his hands. "Yeah. I think he might've hidden it, if it were... before. He's a lot more open about things, now, even though he's also sometimes... quieter."

"You're his keeper," somehow Peter sounds very unsurprised by that, and maybe just the slightest bit amused.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, in case he's still not as right as he could be, in case there are any vestiges of the nogitsune within him—you're the one he trusts to notice, so he's telling you everything he can, in case. He probably thinks that was part of the problem, him withholding important details." Peter explains easily, and Scott blows out a harsh breath.

"You know, he told me you get it- him- more than I ever could. I knew he was right, but I think you just kinda proved it."

Peter's brows raise at that, and he smells mildly pleased, his eyes are a little softer than usual, like they are when he's thinking about Malia, or... Stiles. Scott refuses to continue down that line of thinking and vaguely hopes that he's wrong.

"May I ask," the older wolf begins, and he's being unusually careful, which has Scott instantly on alert, "do you have any knowledge of how the sheriff is handling things?"

Scott tries not to be suspicious, but it's a very suspicion-inducing question. "Why?"

Peter grimaces slightly, "Just. Perhaps you should keep an eye on him?"

Scott narrows his eyes, "Why?" He repeats, and the man makes an exasperated noise.

"Because you are the Alpha," he huffs, "and he's part of your Pack, even if by association, is he not? Besides, I'm _asking_. **Nicely**. Please appreciate how excruciating this is for me."

And with that, Peter swivels, and sweeps toward the spiral staircase. Scott bares his teeth a little at the man's back, the picture of maturity, before conceding the point and deciding that maybe it'd be a good idea to check up on Noah.

* * *

Noah, he finds out, is probably drinking a little more than he should be, the smell of whiskey and rum mingling with his scent, heavy in the air. There's more to it than that, Scott realizes, taking in another deep inhale, parsing out the aroma.

He's so used to this place as a second home; when he was younger, he and Stiles never stayed in one house for very long—they weren't neighbors or anything, but they only really live three blocks away from each other, and every summer, Melissa and Noah would unanimously decide to just _leave their doors open_ , because it was too much trouble _not_ to, two energetic boys running amok between them, and, anyway, they were going back and forth almost as much as Stiles and Scott were, especially after Scott's dad left. They literally lived in each other's pockets, their two houses and the three blocks in between a little piece of the world that _belonged_ to them, that they reigned over with boyish joy, an escape from a neglectful father and an ailing mother.

As they got older, things changed—even before the werewolf stuff happened. Stiles got on meds for his ADHD, he _grieved_ , and his father _grieved_ , and he was suddenly home a _lot_ more, incapable of leaving his dad, or leaving the comfort of the kitchen, the _clock_ , when he was waiting for Noah to come home. Stiles has always had a bit of mother-hen about him, the same thing that propelled them into this friendship in the first place, Scott thinks, fondly remembering Jackson nearly bullying him into an asthma attack and Stiles storming in with a handful of sand, a loud mouth, and bright, furiously protective eyes.

So, Scott ended up spending afternoons at Stiles' house, doing homework, playing videogames, and, when Stiles was going out of his mind with the _waiting_ \- because his mind was so _fast_ , (Scott isn't even ashamed to admit Stiles is smarter than him, just like he wouldn't be ashamed to admit that _Lydia's_ smarter than him. It isn't any fault on his part, and he isn't _stupid_ , they're just _smarter_ , acknowledging that makes interacting with them easier, communication more productive, and he's not so proud as to have a bruised ego over it, besides, he needs to be able to communicate with them to _lead_ them, and, whether he wanted it or not, that's a responsibility he _has_ now), cynical, overthinking every hour of overtime leading to an inevitable call or knock on the door by one of the deputies, telling him he's lost his _other_ parent- when it got to be too much, and Stiles was frenetic rolling into desperate, Scott would distract him with _needing_ something—because that's how Stiles worked, prioritizing the needs of other people, and prioritizing whatever was closest. So, while his father could, _possibly_ , need him, miles away, working whatever case he was at the time, Scott needed him _right then_ , though his needs were a bit sillier. Snacks, movies, help with studies, if all else failed he could convince Stiles he wouldn't be able to go to sleep unless his best friend was _right there_ , curled up next to him, which sometimes worked for a few hours.

He remembers, too, the nights Stiles spent at his house, not because his dad wasn't _home_ , but because he was just too _drunk_. Remembers, vividly, an afternoon spent playing a new videogame that they had been _so_ excited about, interrupted by Noah staggering home, very, _very_ drunk, and Stiles acting like it was _normal_ , the responsibility on his shoulders heavier than Scott had ever realized *the same weight Scott's mother had on her shoulders, until his father left), and it dawned on him- as his best friend helped his father wash up, brush his teeth after puking, twice in the toilet and twice on the way there, as he lay the man on the couch, making sure he was _on his side_ with a bucket right there so he wouldn't choke, as he cleaned up the vomit, tucked his dad in, and put two bottles of water and a bottle of aspirin on the coffee table- that maybe this was a real _problem_.

He'd talked to his mom about it, feeling a little daunted by it all, they were still so _young_ , and it seemed like such a _huge_ thing—and she'd talked to Noah, made him promise to get his act together, because he still had a kid to take care of.

After that, it got better, and Stiles seemed better for it.

He wonders, now, looking around, seeing evidence of bottles and heavy drinking, but nearly _no_ evidence of Stiles, his best friend's scent barely a ghost of an undercurrent in the lingering tangle of sweat and booze and _Noah_ —if, maybe, he should've done this sooner.

He finds a trash bag, throws away the empty bottles, sniffs out the hidden, not-so-empty ones, dumps them out in the sink, and throws those away too, leaving briefly to get an air-freshener and- internally wincing, because he knows Stiles will chew him out later, but bribes can sometimes calm people down enough to listen, and he _needs_ Noah to _listen_ \- a house-special burger from what used to be Noah's favorite place- still is, when he can get away with it- before Stiles started _really_ fretting about his health. So, before he was born, pretty much, Scott thinks with a snort.

He sprays the air freshener around, opening all the windows and waiting for the alcohol scent with now chemical-sweet undertones to air out and leave only a flowery, absent, clinical sort of scent—which, if he's being honest, rubs him the wrong way. This place without Stiles' scent heavily ingrained into the very fabric of it seems _wrong_ somehow. But, he realizes, Stiles has been spending more time at the loft than anywhere else, lately, and it clicks, then, how right Peter was about this, and that the insight he has might not be just because he's been through a similar experience, but also simply because of exposure. It's a little bit relieving, if he's honest, both in the fact that Stiles has someone to be _there for him_ , in places where Scott maybe can't, to look after his blindspots, and in the fact that...

Peter _cared_.

He not only recognized there was something going on, but he empathized, and he _asked_ , entrusted the doing of the thing and the information to Scott, to his... his Alpha.

(That whole progress toward redemption thing is starting to seem less and less shallow, skin-deep, and Scott is considerably happier for it.)

He puts the sheriff's meal in the microwave when he hears the cruiser about two lanes down, the distinct sounds of Noah singing very lamely, out-of-tune along with some country song or other. He's not slurring, and his heartbeat doesn't sound lightly erratic the way it might if he were drunk, but the man normally doesn't sing along so flagrantly unless he's at least a little tipsy, which is worrying, to say the least, and doesn't bode well for the conversation Scott's hoping to have.

The microwave beeps almost the second Noah's parked, and he's got the food plated and the table set by the time the man's opening the door (Scott's not gonna lie, he's little proud of his timing on that one). Sure enough, Noah's breath is colored with the bitter hints of spirits, and Scott fights a worried frown with a slightly strained smile.

"Oh," Noah says, surprised, eyeing the burger suspiciously—knowing it's a bribe, but sneaking closer to it, anyway. "Heya, Scott... What're you doing here, and," he nods toward the plate, eyebrows raised, calling him out on it, "what do you want? Because if you're about to ask me to destroy more evidence—" he makes a face, grim and just this side of upset. Scott can't contain the frown then, confused.

"I didn't— _have_ I asked you to destroy evidence?"

"You might as _well_ have," the man huffs, plopping into the chair and crossing his arms. "Look, I get that arresting werewolves wouldn't be the brightest idea, and lord knows I'm the last person who wants to see any of you- including my _son_ \- behind bars, but..." He scoffs, shaking his head, and the bitter resentment etched in the lines of his face is startling, to say the least.

Stiles told him, once, that almost everything he lacks, he makes up for in his capacity for empathy, his ability to see the good in other people. In this moment, it's the former that knocks him breathless, because how would _Stiles_ feel, being resented by one of the people he loves most in the world for something that _wasn't even his fault_ —actually, no, Scott remembers, suddenly a little furious, because no matter how many times Scott has _told_ him that, Stiles has never _once_ believed it.

And how on earth is any of this _fair?_ Scott has watched Stiles, his _whole **fucking** life_ take care of this man, _religiously_ , selflessly, the same way he takes care of _Scott_ , the same way he took care of _Claudia_ \- even when she was screaming at him for just _existing_ , even when she was accusing him of being her _murderer_ \- all faith and love and devotion without caring one goddamn _ounce_ for himself.

"Is _that_ why I just spent three hours ridding your house of an _egregious_ -" SAT words, even in the middle of a rant. Stiles would say something glib about that, he's sure; he'd appreciate it, anyway- "amount of alcohol? Why you're driving drunk?" "Hey! I'm not—you—" "Or, maybe that's why Stiles is almost never here? Huh? Because you're blaming him for something that _isn't_ his fault—" "I'm not—" "Something he blames himself for enough _already_?"

"Scott!" Noah snaps, red in the face, furious and appalled and maybe a few other things that Scott isn't willing to see right now.

 _"No,"_ Scott growls, eyes flashing, control slipping—he should probably _leave_ , at this rate; his wolf is reacting to what it perceives a threat to one of the most important members of his Pack, and he doesn't know if he can reign it in. Noah blinks, startled, mouth agape. Scott takes a deep breath, lets the encroaching scent of fear and shame ground him somewhat, forces himself to lean on his anchor, thinks about family and Pack and _Allison_ , still fighting for them even with her dying breath.

Another breath, in, out.

"No," he repeats, steadier, claws sliding back to blunt fingernails, the itch in his gums receding, the blood in his irises washed out by rain-soaked soil. He slides the plate closer, "Maybe that isn't what you're feeling, but how you just spoke? It sure as hell sounds like it, and it must be killing him, if he thinks that's true- that you believe what the nogitsune made him do was his fault- so if it _isn't_ , you need to sort some things out with him, and if it _is?"_ Scott shakes his head, decides not to go there.

"Look, man, I know I'm younger than you, and I know you're the sheriff, and you've been like a father to me for a _long_ time, but you're a part of this Pack, and, for as long as that's true, I _am_ your Alpha, and Pack _takes care of_ Pack. I guess I assumed that, considering your position, you'd be willing to help out in that respect, and I'm _sorry_ , okay? I should've talked to you first, gauged what you were comfortable with, I'll be sure to do that from now on, all right? I'd hope you'd still be willing to _tell_ us when there's incriminating evidence against us, or if there's something that could hurt the supernatural community, or, even, the town in general, if it got out. But if you aren't okay with doing _that_ either, I'll talk to Parrish, and we'll figure the rest out from there, as a Pack, and we'll play to your _other_ strengths, unless, of course, I'm wrong _again_ , and you don't want to be Pack _at all?_ In which case, I'd really like it if you told me now."

Noah looks a little dazed, "I..." He chokes on a startled laugh, and his smile is a little wry, his eyes gleaming with pride and maybe a tendril of self-deprecation when he says, "Man, you've grown up well, kid."

Scott smiles, "Thanks to my mom, and _you_ , and," his grin gets wider, "and Stiles."

Noah quirks his lips up, before looking down at his burger, picking at it. "I must've really screwed up, huh? To have the Alpha hounding me like this?"

It's an unspoken concession of power, the words implying his place as Beta, though they're subtle. Scott will take what he can get, for now.

"A little," Scott admits, and Noah heaves a heavy sigh, picking up and taking a bite of the burger, acceptance of the bribe and where both of them know this conversation is probably heading. Scott takes the moment to sit down properly, not feeling the need to stand anymore in the face of his charge's submission—it's not an outright thing, but it's enough to settle something within him, though his wolf is still prowling beneath his skin.

He's going to have to go on a run after this. A long run.

"Did it really sound like that?" Noah asks, still chewing through his mouthful, he sounds thoughtful, brow furrowed. "Like I was—. Like I was accusing him?"

Scott grimaces a little, which has Noah sighing again, nodding his understanding before taking another bite, a big one that he savors for a long time, probably hoping to stave off the inevitable a little while longer. Scott gives him his moment, waits until he swallows to say:

"You need to get some help, Noah."

Noah sets the burger down, sits back in his chair, looking a little mulish, "I'll grant that Stiles and I—"

"I'm not talking about that," he tells him, steady. "I think you _know_ I'm not talking about that. You need to get some _help_ , Noah- before you talk to Stiles, before we hash out what your responsibilities could be for this Pack- before _any_ of it. This is non-negotiable, I'm _serious_ , man. Take some time off work, find a nice rehab, find a good therapist—if you _don't_ , by the end of the week, _I'll_ do it for you. And don't worry about money, It's not gonna be fun but I'll talk to Peter, we'll work _something_ out."

Scott can hear Noah grinding his teeth and, sighing a little internally, he flashes his eyes at the man, moving to get up. "By the end of the week, Noah," he says, final, as he walks to the door. He'll carry him there, if he has to—he _hopes_ he doesn't have to, but... if he has to.


End file.
